


Odd Job

by CaveFelem



Category: Formula 1 RPF, Rush (2013)
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, Happy, Ice Cream, Racing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Workplace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 01:18:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaveFelem/pseuds/CaveFelem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What's an eighteen-year-old to do when he desperately wants a racing car and his parents won't hear any of it? Get an odd job, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Odd Job

**Author's Note:**

> _"His next job was selling ice cream from a van on Epsom Downs (…). But he gave ice cream cones to children who didn’t have any money and, on another occasion, loaded up the van and drove off to Epsom without turning on the refrigerator unit. The whole day’s stock was ruined and, when he returned to the depot, he was sacked."_
> 
> (Tom Rubython, _Shunt: The Story of James Hunt_ )
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and not an attempt to claim that any of the events in the story really happened. The biography quote above is real. Everything else is entirely fictional.
> 
> Originally written for the [Rush advent calendar](http://rushadventcalendar.tumblr.com/).

It was race day, and James Hunt had a car under him. That was the good part. The bad part was that the race was for thoroughbreds and the car was a humble ice cream van. Delightful for children, sure, but there was very little driving and too much sitting and selling ice cream involved.

He was as desperate for money as an eighteen-year-old with big plans could possibly be. Put simply, he needed a car, and to get one, or even the parts for one, he needed cold, hard cash.

It was not that they were poor, far from it, but his glorious future as a racing driver wasn’t the only expense the family had, and raceworthy cars did not come cheap. Moreover, his parents had not been exactly receptive to his pleas. Medicine, sure, or any other respectable career, that they could finance; but driving madly around a track and getting killed crashing headfirst into a wall? Was he intent on breaking his mother’s heart? No, they had made it abundantly clear that if he wanted a racing car, he’d have to earn it himself.

(He supposed wrecking the family car a couple of times hadn’t helped his case either. Though that last time hadn’t been his fault, at least not wholly. So maybe he’d gone a bit too fast, but he could have handled it perfectly well if not for that inconvenient lamppost.)

That was where his job as an ice cream seller had come in. Not his first choice, and didn’t pay all that well, but every little bit counted. Besides, on quiet days he had plenty of time to pore over classified ads and compare prices for cars and parts. On less quiet days, pretty girls showed up sometimes. It wasn’t all bad.

On this particular day, there hadn’t been any pretty girls. Mostly it had been people on a family outing, sometimes small groups of children together, drawn irresistibly to the sight of the van and quickly scattered again once they had their treats. One such group was lingering outside now. There were a small girl and a small boy, siblings by the looks of them, both with the same freckles and ginger hair, and a taller boy, maybe a couple of years older, with a neat pullover and a decidedly ice cream hungry look.

James stuck his head out of the van window.

"Hello there. Did you want ice cream?"

The tallest boy promptly stepped up and produced a shiny sixpence from his pocket.

"Zoom!" he said and pointed an eager finger at one of the colourful ice lollies on the price list. James couldn’t help grinning at his enthusiasm.

"They’re good," he said as he fished a lolly with rockets on the wrapper from the freezer compartment and handed it to the kid. "Especially the raspberry part. Thank you very much, have a nice day. Now what shall we get you two?"

The two other children shuffled their feet in the gravel. The girl had that almost-pouting, might-cry-soon look James had seen often enough while babysitting his siblings. The smaller boy hemmed and hawed and plucked invisible lint from his shirt.

"Wait, let me guess. You don’t have any money, do you? Spent it all already?"

The kids conferred with each other in quick whispers. The girl then came up and opened her fist, showing two pennies and a half-penny.

"We have just this between us," she said, "Papa won’t give us more. He says we’d spend it on silly useless things. It’s not enough for anything, is it, sir?"

James looked around. The older boy with the money and the ice lolly had already gone. There was no queue behind the two little customers; this was not one of those hot sweaty days when ice cream sold like, well, ice cream on a hot day.

"Here’s the thing," he said, leaning thoughtfully on the counter. "I’m sure your father means well. On the other hand, ice cream is not useless or silly."

He didn’t really think about it too much, it just seemed like the right thing to do. He handed them a vanilla ice cream cone each and waved away the timidly offered coins.

"There you go. Now don’t tell anyone."

"Thank you!" The girl practically squealed, clutching the ice cream cone with both hands, delight all over her face. The boy gaped at James and then the free ice cream in silence, then began to wolf it down as if it might otherwise be snatched away.

James sat back down and glanced at the paper he’d dropped on the van floor. He’d circled a few items with a pencil: a car that could be ready for the tracks right now but that he could never afford, a possible fixer-upper that was also beyond his current price range, and for future reference, someone who could possibly paint a helmet.

Outside, the children were leaving. The girl was now preoccupied with her ice cream, but the boy glanced back at James every now and then as they went, still in apparent disbelief.

James picked up the paper and his pencil.

"Not useless or silly," he wrote on the margin next to the painter’s ad.


End file.
